“’Tarn’t poison, is it, doctor?” he said piteously.
“Yes, if you took enough of it. But that drop will not hurt you. There, don’t be afraid. Toss it off. It is a liqueur.”
The old man hesitated for a moment, gazing wildly at the doctor, and then tossed it off at a draught.
“There! Do you feel as if you are going to fall down dead, old man, and do you wonder which of these old niches I shall put you in?”
“Tchah! don’t talk stuff, doctor,” said the old fellow, putting his hand to his throat; “you wouldn’t do such a thing. That’s good! That’s prime stuff. I never tasted nothing like that afore. It warms you like, and makes you feel ready to do anything. Skeared! Who’s skeared? Tchah! What is there to mind? I’m ready, doctor. I’ll help you. What shall I do next?”
“Sit down on that ledge for a bit till I want you.”
“Ay, to be sure,” chuckled the old sexton, as he seated himself on a low projection at the far end of the vault. “That’s prime stuff. I could drink another drop of that, doctor. But you go on. Nobody can’t see from outside, for I’ve put lights in here before now, and shut the doors of a night, and tried it. There isn’t a crack to show; so you go on.”
The doctor watched the weird-looking old man, as he settled himself comfortably, with his back in the corner, and went on muttering and chuckling.
“Brandy’s nothing to it,” he went on—“tasted many a good drop in my time. Eh? What say, doctor?”
“You shall have some more another time.”